The Last Leaf
by persevera
Summary: The story OHenry might have written: Sue and Johnsy are beginning their life together and attracting the attention of others-some welcome, some not. Secret love is further complicated by obsession, suitors, illness and even voyeurism. Can someone be redeemed from a despicable act?
1. Chapter 1

Greenwich Village, New York City, in the early years of the 20th Century—a haven for artists, writers, philosophers, and those seeking cover for atypical lifestyles.

Johnsy and Sue had talked about moving there since meeting each other as roommates in their second year at Vassar Women's College.

Now, here they were.

They looked like coordinating hourglasses in the de rigeur costume for forward-thinking women of the era—long, flared skirt that showed the top of short boots, a high-necked shirtwaist emphasizing the exaggerated curve of the midriff and cropped jacket with shoulder pads and a little straw hat.

The prospective landlord smiled obsequiously as he led them through the dimly-lit, dusty hallway to the first floor apartment on the left side of the brownstone building.

Johnsy, a painter with indulgent parents, was thrilled with the sunlight and view from the far window. It was almost park-like, with a well-tended lawn, some flower beds and an impressive maple tree, situated in the recess of the L-shaped building.

Sue, who hoped to be a lawyer, liked the other end of the room, with an isolated nook that would just fit her old reading table. It would be perfect for studying.

Between their favored spots were a kitchen area with a sink and wood stove and small wooden table, a fireplace on the right wall with two lumpy, mismatched chairs in front of it and in the far right corner—an iron bedstead.

Sue moved to that area to check the bed. "What are those little holes in the ceiling?" she asked, demonstrating her attention to detail that could make her an excellent attorney, if given the chance.

"Oh, that," Mr. Behrman said with a half-hearted chuckle as he barreled his way to her side. Brushing off the nickel-sized dents, he explained, "I asked the previous tenant about it. He said he was experimenting with ways to set up some kind of fan over the bed. As you can see though, there's no dust from them. They're clean holes and shouldn't cause you any trouble."

Sue locked her hazel, bespectacled eyes on him critically. "When do you plan to fill them?"

"I'll get to it as soon as I can," Mr. Behrman said, passing a hand over the steel grey hair that clung to his scalp and then fell to his neck, like matted tassel. "Until then, I'll take 10 percent off of your rent. Is that satisfactory?"

Johnsy gave him the most devastating from her arsenal of smiles, the one reserved for someone who had made her life better. "That's a wonderful deal, isn't it, Sue?" she squealed, impulsively grasping the other woman's arm.

Sue glanced up at Johnsy then scurried to the kitchen area, making a show of testing the creaking water pump. "Alright," she said decisively, "we'll take it, Mr…."

"Just call me Old Behrman," the landlord said.

Sue nodded. "If you don't mind, we'd like to spend a few minutes here alone, then we'll come and find you to sign the lease."

He grinned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Then, with more vigor than his florid complexion or baggy pants would have suggested, he raced up the stairs to his own apartment, directly above the young women's room.

With the door closed, Sue and Johnsy hurried into each others' arms.

"Isn't it wonderful, Sue?" exclaimed Johnsy as Sue kissed her neck and lips, "It's all ours. We'll be so happy together," she continued through kisses. "It will be just the two of us."

Overhead Old Behrman struggled to control his heaving breaths as he swept aside the faded rug in the center of his darkened room. He lowered arthritic knees to the floor, pocked with holes about twice the size of those noticed by Sue. "Yessss," he said hoarsely, eyeing the girls, "just the two of you."


	2. Chapter 2

The evening was balmy and still light and Old Behrman was on his way to his favorite tavern. He hadn't been in two weeks, since Johnsy and Sue had moved into their apartment. he said to himself.

Johnsy had told him that she would be gone that evening, which left Sue by herself studying and he had no interest in observing or sketching that, so, off to the tavern.

Though from an artist's perspective, Behrman had to admit that Sue had a perfect profile and that she filled out her Gibson Girl skirts and shirtwaists better than the taller and more angular Johnsy. In most circles, Sue would have been considered beautiful, but she paled next to her roommate and she liked it that way.

Johnsy's face was mesmerizing. Her skin was creamy and her eyes a glassy blue under the fronds of her long eyelashes that, like the eyebrows, were darker than her sunny blonde hair. She usually wore her hair down with a big schoolgirl bow but tonight, Behrman had watched from his peephole, as she'd transformed herself into a sophisticated young woman, donning a yellow silk and lace gown and pinning her hair in a voluminous updo.

She'd told him that her parents were visiting and she was having dinner with them at their hotel in Manhattan.

"I'll be home as soon as I can," she promised Sue, standing at the door of their apartment in a sustained embrace. "Will you leave a candle lit for me?"

"Always," Sue answered in a muffle as she nuzzled the wide expanse of the taller woman's neckline. She never got over her fascination with Johnsy's skin. No matter how long she was in the North, it still carried a trace of California sun. "Now go be a dutiful daughter." Sue said, lifting her head for a final kiss, "I have studying to do."

The women adopted their public detachment as they walked toward the front door of the house, daring one last brush of hands as Johnsy went outside and Sue moved to the drawing room, where her borrowed books on New York property laws awaited her.

An elaborate carriage with a fold-down top and silver scrollwork, pulled by a pair of black horses, came to pick up Johnsy. The silver rimmed wheels bumped along the cobblestone streets of the Village, causing her to bounce in her seat and repeatedly adjust the forward tilt on her wide-brimmed Gainesborough hat. The ride became smoother with the transition to the granite setts of the city that gave the horses surer, more comfortable footing, and saved Johnsy's coiffure.

She watched as pedestrian traffic seemed to diminish from hurried throng along hot, dusty streets, to a more sedate and leisurely stroll under carefully-tended, tree-lined walkways. The clattering transport from the Village to Manhattan gave her time for adjustment also, from independent, sexually-experienced bohemian, to dutiful daughter.

Johnsy took a deep breath as the carriage approached the hotel, glancing up at the marquee with its name, Waldorf-Astoria, engraved and gilded. The doorman who helped her with her graceful descent from the vehicle and the elevator operator who whoosed her to her parents' floor each received a demure smile from her arsenal.

She met John and Laura Sinclair in their elegantly-appointed suite, standing in front of the unlit fireplace, as though posing for a photograph on the society page.

Her father, still long and lean, spun her around after she'd playfully twirled the ends of his sandy handlebar mustache. "You look lovely, Johnsy," he said, calling her the nickname he'd given her as a six-year-old tomboy.

"Yes, Joanna," said her more reserved mother, whom Johnsy mirrored, except for the gray streaks in her hair, "you look very beautiful, though I believe your décolletage is a little daring for dinner with your family, but I brought you a new stole that should cover you nicely."

"Thank you, Mother," said Johnsy tolerantly, after catching her father's wink. "It's perfect," she added, as Mrs. Sinclair draped the sprig-patterned silk garment over her shoulders. "Are we going downstairs to the restaurant now? I'm starving."

"In just a moment," her mother said patting the space next to her on the rococo settee, "Why don't we sit and talk?"

Johnsy joined her mother on the red velvet sofa and glanced around the suite. The sitting room alone was twice as large as her apartment and, with its rich furnishings and extravagant touches, like silk brocade wallpaper, epitomized gilded age opulence. The combination of newspaper publishing and orange groves certainly had been beneficial to the Sinclairs.

It was something that she might not have been attuned to before, but with her current experience in the diverse, less affluent community, she saw the room for the excess it represented.

Maybe she could enlighten them. She began to tell her parents about her neighborhood, her daily walks and the people she'd met. "I see something new every day, wonderful subjects for my paintings."

Her mother's smile was steady and indulgent, but her eyes kept slanting toward the door, as if waiting for someone. She rose quickly with a sly smile at the sound of a knock and returned on the arm of a broad-shouldered, dark-haired young man. He shared a firm handshake with Mr. Sinclair, then, with a big smile, held out his arms for Johnsy.

"Georgie!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet in happy surprise.

The clock in the hallway ticked away the minutes that Sue spent alone in the silent parlor. Their neighbor, Mr. Graham, was in his apartment on the other side of the house but he was such a recluse, that she might as well be all alone. She sat curled on the Victorian sofa in the center of the room with the heavy book in her lap, occasionally looking out the windows behind her for the carriage.

She sipped her tea from the mug that she'd brought with her from home and glanced indifferently at the art on the walls. The gas chandelier over her head caught the gilt of the framed pictures and shadowed the chairs that sat against the windows, allowing her eyes to naturally return there.

She found it difficult to concentrate on contracts and easements, as Johnsy established eminent domain in her mind. That gold dress was perfect with her coloring and she smelled so lovely, much too good for dinner with her parents.  
Sue turned the page of the statute book, trying not to let her thoughts wander to other possibilities, but the twinge of worry and jealousy couldn't be dislodged. It had been that way for her from the beginning, with her possessiveness as strong as her desire.

_Squatters' rights_, she read, trying again to resume her studying. There was a price to pay for loving someone like Johnsy, feeling as though she had to fight both men and women for her, never being able to be confident that her ardor was returned. Only the woman herself made that worthwhile.

She closed her eyes and remembered the first time that she'd held her, that cold night at Vassar. "We Northerners know all about body heat," she'd said, offering to share her bed and huge patchwork quilt with her thin-blooded and beautiful roommate.

"You can really see and hear them pleasuring each other?" asked Olson, an unsuccessful sculptor.

"All the time," Behrman answered gloatingly. Olson shook his head in amazement, releasing some of the stone's dust from his current project to sprinkle on the table like dandruff.

"There's something I wanted to ask you about," Behrman said, turning to Peters, a thin, already-balding young man who eked out a living as a portrait photographer. "Are there any lenses I could use to improve the view?"

Peters, enjoying his moment of attention, prolonged it by leaning back and rubbing his chin in thought. "I've been experimenting with some different kinds. I could let you try them, if I can watch too," he said, his eyes nearly glazing with excitement.

Behrman scowled at him, as though offended, "My girls aren't to leer at; they're art."  
Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that, said Peters to himself. . Out loud he asked, "Well then, can you show us your drawings?"

Behrman was very proud of his work. "Maybe," he tempered himself, "when it's finished."

Mae Campbell weaved her way through the smoky room and approached the round table where Behrman and his cronies sat, carrying a fresh pitcher of beer. Behrman patted her well-cushioned hip. "Maybe the old girl here will buy it for display."

Mae glanced at him, still seeing the dashing young painter he was more than 30 years ago, when she was his model and muse. "I might," she said, "if you get their permission."

Behrman rolled his eyes. It was an argument that he and Mae had begun decades ago and would never reconcile.

"Without asking my permission, Behrman," she'd said in a hurt voice, as he rapped the nude he'd done of her while she slept to take to a client, "you're stealing from me."

He'd brushed off that idea then; he did so now, still believing that the chance to be immortalized in a great painting was something any woman should want, whether she knew it or not.

But he was fond of Mae. No woman had meant anything to him though, since the death of his Christina ten years earlier.

Mae studied him and asked, "Is one of these girls tall and blonde with big blue eyes?"

"Yes," he answered uncomfortably, acknowledging that she'd described not only Johnsy, but Christina as well.

Behrman had met her in the park. Her affluent family lived on the north side of Washington Square, while Frank had a small apartment and studio in the artists' community on the west side. She was eighteen; he was twenty-five.

Christina had agreed to pose for him…in the park. He'd taken his sketchbook and pencils every day. She'd begun dressing with more care, playing with different hairstyles, posing at home in front of the mirror so that she could know what expressions or positions might be most pleasing to him. Once they'd had the perfect combination of costume, pose and theme, he'd begun bringing his easel and paints. He'd given the finished picture to her as an engagement present.

Their wedding was a Village event, bringing the divergent groups of the neighborhood together—intelligentsia and laborers, rich and poor, bohemian and establishment. They'd thrown a big party afterwards in the newly-purchased L-shaped house with the pretty side yard, a wedding present from Christina's family.

Soon after their nuptials, Mae Fraley had married Mr. Campbell, an older man who had been enchanted with her from one of Behrman's paintings of her. They weren't in love, but still happy, until he'd died after just a couple of years, leaving Mae to carry her still-burning torch for Behrman.

Mae had converted their small house into the tavern. She kept an apartment in the back—light, airy and immaculate.

The public rooms, dominated by smoke and the fumes from alcohol for the last twenty-five years, were musty and dingy. Her clientele of aging, down-on-their-luck artists, like Behrman, appreciated the gritty atmosphere. They added layers to it, with the smoke from their fat cigars and more frequently spilled drinks, leaving alcohol stains on the wood plank floor and the yeasty, slightly rotting smells that couldn't be scrubbed away.

Even the artwork in the bar, contributed by patrons who couldn't settle their tab, had a sooty, seen-better-days quality, all but her painting that Mr. Campbell had bought from Behrman. It was more modest than most of his art that featured her, revealing just a slightly rounded white shoulder, but her frank green-eyed expression hinted at much more. Mae dusted and cleaned it daily so that its colors, while faded, were the most pure thing in the room and her auburn-haired youth and beauty still radiated from it.

Behrman had another beer with the table and then, as had been his custom for years, stopped drinking just before the point that he would be staggering for the short walk home. In front of his house he saw the carriage from earlier that evening, now with the top fastened. The driver looked comfortably reclined, as if he had been there a while. The sky was dark, with a sliver of moon and few stars. With illumination from a gas streetlamp, Behrman could see the inside of the carriage and a handsome, olive-skinned man with his arms around Johnsy.

"And the plot thickens, as Mr, Graham would say," Behrman noted wryly to himself, absorbing the details of the scene for drawing later. On the far left side of the house, in the girls' room, he noticed the window suddenly become black, a light having been extinguished.


	3. Chapter 3

It was so important to get the shading under the breasts right. And the arc. He had to make sure that it wasn't too deep, giving the impression that Johnsy was more buxom than she actually was, not as much as Christina had been.

Behrman sat at the table in his upper-floor apartment, transferring a sketch of his favorite tenants onto canvas. He had the frame propped up on the table, as his arthritic knees could only bear standing for so long. Candles flickered around him, it being very early, and the sun only beginning to warm the glass panes on the back wall, but not yet give light. The faint greyish whiteness of dawn crept up on the windows, as if peeking to share in Behrman's covert appreciation of his subjects.

Sue was easy to paint, a curving half form from behind, her high, firm buttocks a gentle ivory tone, with the waves of her long brown hair falling just at the slight protrusion of the shoulder blade.

Behrman took another sip of water from a speckled tin cup on the table, then cleared his throat and ran a paint-streaked hand over his brow and side of his face.

She approached the bed on which Johnsy lay. Behrman turned his eyes back to his original sketch, using a long finger to trace that beautiful line. It began with Johnsy's arm thrown seductively behind her head and over the swell of her small breast, to the indent of her waist. Her body twisted slightly to welcome Sue and his finger followed the contour of her hips and thighs to the bend in her knee.

He smiled, wondering if Johnsy was ticklish behind her knees, as his wife had been. The pad of his finger rested there a moment and twitched, as though he were teasing a giggle from her.

He shrugged out of the brown, holey sweater made by Christina years ago and drank from the cup again, replenishing his dry mouth, then licking his dryer lips.

Behrman concentrated on the splash of flaxen hair on the pillows and the years fell away, as he remembered Christina's blonde locks splayed over their bed.

Glancing over at the full length mirror next to his oaken wardrobe, he imagined himself standing in front of it, proud and erect, with a well-muscled physique and dark skin.

In his mind he moved to the bed where his bride lay, eighteen and trembling. Her eyes were a blue that he had perfected, with the color he used for a base in clear-day skies and a dash of white. He achieved their shape by making a circle, then pinching it on the outside.

Ah, the paintings that he'd done of them together from that first night, his long body stretched over her pale softness, like leather on gossamer. He usually made her hands into tight little fists against the top of his back, as she lay with her arms around his neck, gasping, moaning and begging him to teach her more.

Behrman bent his greying head over his palette to return to his work. The light source in the painting was a single candle on the table next to the bed. Its glow shimmered on Johnsy and traced Sue's body. She appeared to have moved closer, almost able to touch the other woman. And didn't she know how touch her!

The old man shifted in his seat, hearing again the sounds from the night that he'd done this sketch, so similar to those he could coax out of Christina.

With his paintbrush, he dragged a bit of red into his light mauve and swirled them together until he had the color he wanted, about the same as a pomegranate seed. He touched it on the chest area with his paint brush and lifted up, creating a little point. Yes, that was the color and look of the nipples that he remembered after Sue had worked her magic.

He'd had a hint of them himself, that day last week, when Johnsy had asked him to pose for her. He grinned, thinking about it. He'd been a most difficult subject, requiring her to lean over him because he just wasn't able to understand how she wanted him to sit.

"Now just look toward the house, Mr. Behrman," she'd instructed after positioning him just so on the bench in the side yard.

Oops! His hat falling again when he'd scratched his eyebrow. It wasn't as though he could retrieve it when he was posing, so Johnsy had set down her drawing paper and gotten it for him. He'd let out a slow, appreciative breath behind her back as she'd bent to pick it up, calculating almost exactly the measurement of her hips and thighs—information that he would use in future drawings of her.

"Thank you," he'd said with a rueful smile, glad that he still had all of his teeth, when she'd plopped it back on his head. She'd favored him with a long-suffering grin and, unwittingly, another pleasant view, in bending over again to pick up her sketch.

Behrman had watched her technique. She held her drawing pens too tightly. It would restrict the feeling of movement in her subjects. Still, she'd looked sweet with her head bent over the paper, occasionally looking back up to him. He'd liked the way her hair kissed her cheek and how she wrinkled her nose in concentration.

"How long have you lived here, Mr. Behrman?" she'd finally asked, still busy with her pens. He'd smiled, knowing that mean that she'd completed his face but she still needed him to stay in his pose. To him, working on a single area at a time, rather than the overall picture, was the mark of an amateur.

"Over twenty-five years," he'd answered, sitting as she'd posed him, with his arm on one knee and his other hand on his hip, though he looked not at the building, but in the window of Johnsy and Sue's apartment. He dropped a little more weight onto his knee to relieve the strain in his torso. "My wife and I were married here."

"Oh really?" she'd said, looking up. "Do you mean right here, under the tree? I think this would make a lovely spot for a wedding."

He'd felt warmth in his chest, a lump in his throat. She looked so much like Christina. "No. We were married in the parlor. I wanted to do it out here," he'd added quickly, seeing the corners of her mouth turn down and her head go back to her drawing, "but my father-in-law insisted it was more dignified inside."

"Was the brick painted white when you moved here?" she'd asked, turning her attention to the building.

"I did it," Behrman had answered, coming to stand next to her. "I painted most of the buildings around here. Made a good living at it," he'd said, smiling down at her. "I could climb like a monkey, until my knees gave out," he'd added with a sigh, rubbing his leg.

He'd been rewarded with Johnsy's giggle. "Did you have any children?" .

"Well, I gave her plenty of 'em," he'd said with a chuckle. Johnsy hadn't responded and Behrman had stopped and cleared his throat. "Christina was never able to carry them though."

Johnsy had turned toward him. "I'm so sorry," she'd said in a soft voice, laying a hand on his arm.

He'd been sure the arm had tingled. "Oh well," he'd continued with a harrumph, "maybe somebody knew what he was doing, not letting me be a father." He'd picked up his trowel and his knees had creaked back down to his flower bed.

Johnsy had tapped him on his shoulder. Looking back at her, she'd handed him the drawing. "I think you would have made a very good father," she'd said, with a sympathetic smile, before walking back into Behrman's house.

He'd looked at her sketch and nodded approvingly. She was better than he had thought.

Yes, he said, picking up the sketch sitting next to his painting, she was better than he would have imagined, except that she made him look too old. How could she have missed the cleft in his chin and he wasn't quite so wrinkled, or frumpy. But she shows promise, he said to himself. If she sees herself as a real artist, maybe she'd be willing to pose for me.

True, Behrman had always preferred to capture his subjects unawares, but the thought of her posing for him, willing to let him position her and touch her...

He took another drink from his cup.

Acutely aware of activity downstairs, he could hear Sue now, rising from the squeaky bed and beginning her quiet fumbling. Behrman knew from the times that he'd watched her that Sue would look over anxiously toward Johnsy, not wanting to disturb her very productive beauty sleep.

He heard a thump in the kitchen area, followed by a whispered epithet and smiled. Such dear girls. "I hope it never changes," he said under his breath, "that they don't let something like last night come between them. What did the young man matter anyway, probably just an old friend."

He studied his finished painting with light from the brightening window. Good, very good, but not quite a masterpiece. Soon though, as long as nothing changed. Soon.


	4. Chapter 4

It was semi-dark as Sue squinted in the small mirror to pull back her chestnut hair and pin it in a bun for work. The sun came in the window of their apartment later in the day, but she didn't want to turn on a light and disturb Johnsy. She took a glimpse of her, still asleep in their bed.

Sue had pretended to be asleep when Johnsy came into the room the previous night from her visit with her parents. Since she'd been waiting in the parlor to greet her, she'd seen her arrive in the carriage and been crushed by the sight of her lover cuddling with someone else.

Sighing now, Sue left the room and began her purposeful walk to work. She kept her head down and relived the scene from last night—Johnsy's blonde hair contrasted against the dark hair of whomever he was, the smiles between them, the familiarity.

She lifted her head at the sound of a drum. There was a group of perhaps fifteen women standing across the street, unrolling a banner demanding Votes for Women. She noticed the woman who seemed to be in charge. Tall and commanding, she was dressed the same as the others in what might have been a work outfit of ankle grazing skirt and blouse in white, but she looked as though she would be just as comfortable in a ball gown.

Walking past the group, she slapped her hand over her heart to show her support for the cause and received a smile from the leader. "Come join us," the woman offered, her grey eyes mischievous with the challenge.

Sue shook her head, pointing to the building across the street that housed the offices of Callahan &amp;Graves, Esq. She climbed the granite steps to the dark green painted doors, proclaiming the firm established in 1880. She pushed back her shoulders and feelings. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted at work. There was just too much to stay on top of. For instance, waiting for her at the door was Leonard Collins, a young associate very eager for her arrival.

"What took you so long?" he demanded, grabbing her arm to quickly lead her through the rows of mahogany desks. Some of the young men bent over files glanced up as she passed them, alerted by her lemon verbena. They enjoyed the sight of her S-curved figure and energetic bustle, until she and Collins reached her own desk at the back of the room. "You promised me you'd help me with this brief. I need it by noon," he reminded her, running his hands through his thick blond hair with worry.

"I've already done all the research and cites," Sue assured him, removing her hat and gloves. "I'll have it typed in an hour and you can submit it as your own brilliant work...for now."

Collins' face showed relief and sheepishness, as he nodded silently and left her to it. He had promised Sue that when he received a promotion, he'd request her as a research assistant and give her partial credit for the work she'd done for him. He'd had no intention of honoring the promise when they'd first entered into their agreement. Now he worried what the clever woman might have planned to ensure it.

She squinted in the poor light from her isolated corner of the clerks' office. The light from the bare, overhead bulbs didn't quite reach her desk. The room was dark anyway, the walls lined with mahogany shelves full of statute books, bound copies of deeds and plats and clients' records. There were about thirty young men in the room with her, all dressed in mandatory starched collars and suit coats that she knew were much too hot for the summer weather.

She smirked at the thought as she sat down at the shiny black Royal typewriter. She pounded the keys, barely conscious of the way the corresponding hammers would rise to strike the paper with their individuals letters, while she continued her musings.

Johnsy wasn't committed to females, like herself, she knew that. The pretty woman just loved everyone. Sue had always known that eventually she'd lose her to someone who could offer her marriage and the children she was designed to bear and rear.

With a practiced flourish, Sue pulled the last sheet of letterhead out of the machine and Collins, who'd been standing away from her but watching anxiously, hurried over and snatched the documents without a word, not giving her a chance to remind him of their deal.

She rested her elbows on her desk. They'd talked about it. She'd asked Johnsy if it was just a "pash" for her, like with other girls at school. Johnsy had shaken her blonde head and insisted it wasn't. "I love you, Sudie," she'd assured her, lowering her head for their lips to meet. Sue closed her eyes and ran a finger on her bottom lip, recapturing the feeling of that and other kisses.

"I saw that," said the young, very tall associate standing in front of her desk.

Sue startled, coming out of her memory. "What?"

"He's taking advantage of you," said the tenor voice above her.

She looked up into the freckled face of Theodore Simpson, the first person that she had espied appreciating her daily arrival. She pulled off her glasses and widened her hazel eyes. "Do you think so, Mr. Simpson?"

"Teddy, I told you," he said, giving her a grin. "Yes, Susan, I think he plans to take all of the credit for your work and leave you behind."

She dipped her lashes. "Then I suppose it's a good thing that I have the list of everything that I've done for him, like we talked about before," she said, pulling from her desk a log of the assignments on which she had done most of the work for Collins. She added the current project as _Brief on Property Owner's Rights When Tax Delinquent_ and, smiling up at the Columbia alumnus before her, continued, "And you were so right when you suggested that you should sign the log each time as a witness. Right here, please," she said, pointing to the proper place on the list. "There's no way he can deny the help I've given him as long as I have this." She folded the document with a smile and secreted it in a file in her desk drawer. Taking a deep breath she looked up into young Simpson's face again.

She brushed the side of her face and left her chin cupped in her hand, as she adopted the soft, sweet voice that she'd heard Johnsy use when she wanted to charm someone. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate all of your help...Teddy. How can I ever thank you?"

His grin stretched across his freckles as he put his hands on her desk and leaned toward her. "You could have dinner with me."

Sue dropped her head with a titter and looked back into his face. "Why would you want to have dinner with me? I'm much too plain for a gentlemen like you, Teddy. You deserve a lovely young woman that you would be proud to show off. In fact, that's how I'll show my gratitude. I'll find you such a woman. Oh, but now don't you think you should go back to your desk before people will wonder why you're talking to me? We wouldn't want them to think I'm doing work for you, would we?" she said, loading another sheet into her typewriter and setting to work on her next task.

"Oh...of course," said Simpson, returning to his desk, shaking his head in confusion and looking back once at the enigmatic typist.

Sue grinned for him one last time. Men! she said to herself. Why on Earth would Johnsy want one of them?

She glanced to her left to the second level of the open office, where Collins sat at one of the research tables. She arched an eyebrow and he dropped his head to the brief in front of him. Her body shook slightly with her suppressed laugh. She sidled her sight to the row of desks where Simpson sat, not surprised that she caught his stare as well.

Sue sighed as she began pounding the keys on her Royal again. The morning light was now strong and so was her determination. If it was time for her to lose Johnsy, she would handle it as well as she did the politics in the office. She wouldn't fight it. She'd always sworn she would let her go with dignity.

Her fingers beat the lettered buttons on the machine in a rhythm to match her resigned heartbeat._ I just hoped to have her longer._


	5. Chapter 5

Johnsy turned in the bed, unsure when her dream had become a memory. One moment she was standing on an embankment in front of her easel, capturing an overcast morning sky over waters so clear that she could count the fish that swam past her.

In the next moment she was in a formal dining room, seated at a small square table with her parents and a dark-haired young man, sipping sherry with the soup course, chardonnay with the fish, red for the entree and champagne with dessert.  
'

Conversation was more lively than usual with her mother and father, thanks to Georgie, and they all laughed a great deal. 'This latest lark of Johnsy's will soon be over, I suspect," Sinclair said, using his napkin to brush crumbs from his whiskers, and our girl will be ready to return home and enthrall all of California again."

She took an anxious sip while George, seated to her right, grinned. "I don't know, Sir, this city has a way of enthralling." She felt his gaze on her and lifted her blue eyes to his dark brown ones. "We can be claimed and not even realize it until we're past the point of no return," he concluded, smiling again for the entire table.

Johnsy turned in her bed again, trying to conjure images of snowy sails gliding over the bay but remembered instead the white walls and monogrammed towels in the restaurant's powder room, where she and her mother retreated while the men smoked. She ran her fingertips over the teak wood of the long counter and glanced at her reflection in one of the oval mirrors above it.

"Such a delightful young man," said her mother next to her, smoothing the sides of her hair. "I had feared he might be different after his escapade in Europe, but he seems no less the worse for wear, don't you think?"

Johnsy turned her head to her. "Escapade?"

"Yes," Mrs. Sinclair said, smoothing her matronly plum silk skirt. "A Continental tour with his friends was, of course, expected, but their all joining the French Foreign Legion took everyone aback."

Johnsy halted her own primping for a moment. "The Legion? Why would he do that?" she asked, leaning closer to the mirror to powder her nose.

Her mother shrugged. "Why do any American men do that? Adventure, grand stories to share with their cronies, a broken heart..but he seems to be recovered from whatever led to such a silly decision. Just as charming as ever. Well, are you ready to rejoin them?"

She shifted on her pillows again, as the scene shifted to the interior of the carriage parked back at her apartment house in Greenwich Village. She might as well have been in a crate for all that she could notice of anything but his presence next to her, a friendly arm over her shoulders, regaling her with less guarded stories of mutual friends.

"Charles asked me to give you something."

She smiled at him, still a little tipsy from dinner. "Your brother? What would he have to give me?"

"This," George answered, taking her hand and kissing the inside of her wrist. Even through the long satin glove, she felt his lips, firm yet gentle, nicer than Charles's had ever been. His eyes held her as his hand did. He moistened his lips and she unconsciously did the same. Firm yet gentle, his mouth on hers. Firm yet gentle, his arms around her, the hand that caressed her cheek, and lips that pressed to her forehead.

Firm yet gentle, her response. "I have to go," she said, stepping out of the carriage. "Good night, George." She fumbled in her bag for her key. It fell to the ground with what seemed to her a deafening, echoing ping.

George picked it up and handed it to her. He gave her the stole that she had left in the carriage, wrapping it around her. "Goodnight, Johnsy."

She awoke with the same palpitations that she'd felt leaning on the door inside the house. She tried one more time to roll over and return to her dream but the Bay of Naples was gone for good.

She lit a candle resting on a table by the old iron bed, glad that Sue wasn't there to see her in her present state. It was just the wine, she told herself, rising from the bed and washing her face while boiling water for tea. She dressed and did a quick cleanup of the room, paying special attention to Sue's desk so that it would be neat for her that evening. She got her sketch paper and pens and began her stroll in the neighborhood.

Just the wine, she said to herself, nearly colliding with two women carrying large bundles of fabric piecework to the shirt factory a few blocks distant. With their bulging arms and grim, tired faces, Johnsy knew that they would make excellent subjects for a drawing and almost asked them to pose for her. No, it would be important to capture them in the middle of their task, not interrupted and arranged.

She smiled and hurried past them, next seeing some barefooted children on their way to the park, tossing a grimy ball back and forth to each other.

They waved at the beautiful lady and she returned the greeting, before entering one of the little twisted side streets for which the Village was famous. It was as though only a single ray of the sun's light could squeeze between the brownstone buildings on either side of the cobblestone walkways. The light served as a beacon to guide her back to the open street.

Just the wine. She ambled past the old houses converted to apartments and storefronts, absorbing the smells of food from the public houses and street vendors, and idly waving and speaking to the people she met along the way.

Just the wine, and it was nice seeing Georgie again. The kiss was nice.

Johnsy had always been an enthusiastic kisser with all of her beaux at home in California, including Georgie's older brother Charles. She had segmented physical contact into her own ideas of what was acceptable and unacceptable—a self-serving notion, that had allowed for flexibility in all of her relationships, not that she'd tested it with her current one before last night. It was self-serving but not selfish. After all, she wouldn't have begrudged Sue a kiss from another woman.

She'd never thought of Georgie, who was her age, as someone to kiss, but he was handsome and entertaining. Her mother obviously adored him. He was strong and confident…and, she realized, he was standing before her at her favorite outdoor produce market.

George Prescott Martin's mischievous smile belied his somber business suit appearance, as Johnsy, the object of his affection, and venture into the Village, finally arrived.

Just the wine, she reminded herself as she went to talk to him. "What are you doing here, Georgie?"

He handed her a bag of apples. "Having a pleasant conversation with Mrs. Garrity," he answered. "She thinks you're a lovely young woman, by the way."

"Good morning, Mrs. Garrity," Johnsy called to the grocer, who was waiting on a customer.

The hubbub of the street vendors and foot traffic made it necessary for the two Californians, accustomed to a more sedate atmosphere, to raise their voices. George showed Johnsy a couple more small bags. "She's a shrewd businesswoman," he said, as Mrs. Garrity weaved her way through the tables and carts, laden with Indian summer's fruits and vegetables, to where they stood. "She agreed that for every hour I waited here for you, I had to buy another bag of food. So you also have potatoes and onions."

"You've been waiting that long?" asked a flattered Johnsy.

He grinned, tilting his thin black mustache. "Well, I didn't realize you were such a lady of leisure, though

I think Mrs. Garrity might have, when we made our bargain."

The handsome, middle-aged grocer smiled at the couple, then turned her attention to a squat, kerchiefed woman eyeing the tomatoes.

A little girl with black ringlets and warm brown eyes dominating her pale face shyly came to stand next to Johnsy.

"Hello, Benita," Johnsy greeted her. "How is your mother today?"

Benita looked up at Johnsy, clearly adoring. "She's still sick and the baby's coughing now too," Benita reported. "Mama wanted to have the doctor come but we don't have money to pay him."

Johnsy tsked and said, "Here, take these for your family."

George eyed her, perplexed. "Johnsy, you're the most considerate person I know. Don't you think Miss Benita's family might need more than a few potatoes?"

Johnsy looked down at the bag with a slight frown."Papa says that people shouldn't be given too much. It builds character to have to struggle," she explained.

George smiled tolerantly on the naïve, privileged girl he was sure he loved. He requested Mrs. Garrity bag more staples and, with a wink at Benita, more apples and some lollipops. "I remember not having enough food, Johnsy. It doesn't build character, just hunger."

She looked at him, her blue eyes shuttering in surprise. "When were you ever hungry, Georgie?" she asked, as they took the groceries and began strolling with Benita to see her family.

With the advent of public transportation, there were fewer carriages on the street. The city's denizens had taken to walking down the middle of the road, avoiding the piles of smelly garbage and manure often found along the sidewalk and curb.

George offered his arm and explained, "When I was little we were fruit pickers, working and living in the groves."

"I had no idea," Johnsy said. "Your mother is such a gracious lady."

George nodded in agreement. "Yes, and she was when all she had to serve was weak chicory coffee. My father would do anything for her. He began his shipping business by running crates of oranges and strawberries to the market. When he opened his first company, his partner suggested changing his name from Martino to Martin."

"I can't believe I've never heard this," said Johnsy, a little breathlessly, as they moved to avoid a young newsboy, hurrying past them and dropping his papers. "Charles never mentioned that."

George stooped to help the flustered, apologetic boy pick up his merchandise and gave him a penny for a folded edition. "Well, Charles doesn't have the same pride in our origins that I do. In his mind the 'Martins' were on the next ship after the Mayflower."

Johnsy giggled. "You were always more charming, Georgie, though Charles was more handsome."

George leaned over and whispered in her ear, "He's gotten fat." She shivered at the tickle of his breath.

The sights and sounds of the neighborhood changed, as they moved into the immigrant enclave, with its flat-front buildings, more horse-drawn wagons, and spicy aroma of food from the old country, to the tenement where Benita's family lived in two rooms on the fourth floor.

George helped Johnsy in her long skirt negotiate a puddle of questionable origin in front of the building. "I have to go to the office now. Can you and Benita manage alone?"

"Of course," Johnsy answered, clasping the shopping bags close to her chest and holding out her hand. "It was nice to see you again, Georgie."

He bent at the waist and lifted the slender hand to his lips. "Always a pleasure."

Benita clutched the bags of apples and lollipops and watched the exchange with interest. George grinned as he bent down further to kiss her hand, as well. "And it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Benita."

He raised back up and leaned toward Johnsy. "I'll stop at the doctor's office and arrange for the visit." He left with a final grin and tip of his homburg hat.

She smiled after him, not thinking about its effect, but just because she couldn't help it. Her cheeks warmed in a blush when he turned to wave. Had he known that she would still be looking? How could she be having this reaction to someone she'd always considered her beau's funny little brother?

"Oh, Miss Johnsy," Benita gushed. "He's so…" She looked up at Johnsy, her eyes bright and face as red as the apples she carried. "I want to see him again."

Johnsy smiled down on her. So she wasn't the only one who had felt it- not just the wine. She gave the little girl a wise nod. "Yes, Benita, he's a gentleman. That's how he's supposed to make us feel."


End file.
